Hands occupied with cat’s cradle,
she follows in the footprints,
shallow indents on the mossy ground,
soon stopping
as her mother stands at the gate and wails,
a warning to those inside to sleep lightly.
Clumps of cyclamen
in Butler Belfast sinks for tubs
line the gravel path,
but the banshee does not approach.
The family hear her
and that is enough.
